The Reluctant Outlaw
by Matthew Seeger
Summary: This is my first FanFiction here. Oh, I forgot. Review, plz thx.
1. Chapter 1 Birdington's Ripe for Plucking

A fan fiction by Matthew Seeger

**Chapter One  
Birdington's Ripe for Plucking (Part one)**

It was quiet out. The sun had just set and the Zapflies were chirping and buzzing about, leaving an electric trail where they flew. A group of Outlaw Shooters and two Cutters "herded" me towards town.

"The town of Birdington," said Chains, so named for the chains around his arm. "This here's where we start looting."

Chains pointed to a small house with a sign that said, "If you were here, you'd be home." Quaint, but unfortunately, quaintness is a concept lost on the Outlaw scum.

My brow was sweating. I didn't want to do this, but unfortunately if I didn't, I knew I would get worse back at the hideout. I shuddered at the memory of what Bailey did to the last traitor.

Chains motioned to a Cutter and three Shooters to go around back of the quaint little home.

"You," he looked at me and squinted, "stay here with us until Fred and the others get back."

"My name is not 'You,'" I said, trying to sound brave. "It's Pugsley."

"Yer name is Mud unless Boss says otherwise," he snapped at me. "Now shaddap and hide. Someone might see you."

I scowled, but did what I was told. "Boss" wanted complete and total compliance, and I was to do as Chains said. Or else.

We sat and waited behind a pile of wet, rotting lumber for nearly ten minutes. There was some clanging, followed by some "shh!"-ing at about the six-minute mark, but fortunately none of the lights in the home turned on. Frank and the three Shooters ran out with a handful of jewelry.

Chains looked disappointed. "This is all ya got?" He asked.

Frank looked down at his toes and kicked some dirt around shamefully. "This is all the guy had."

"Ya better hope to get a good haul in the next house." Chains threatened Frank with the barrel of his gun.

"I…I will! I promise!" Frank stammered.

"Good," he said. "Let's move out. We have a long night ahead of us."

Three other houses went by in that same fashion. Then Chains decided to let me go into the fifth house.

I hated the thought of looting some poor sap's home.

"I'd really rather not…" I said.

"Fine," Chains said. "I'll just tell boss that you didn't pull your own weight tonight, and we can just…"

"No, no!" I said quickly, "I'll…I'll go. Who do you want me to take?"

"Barry, Billy-Bob," he motioned for two Shooters. "Get in there with 'im."

"Yew got it, boss." Said Barry.

"Aw, come on. You're sending me in with Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dumber? That's bull—"

"Move it!" Yelled Chains.

(V)

Barry led Billy-Bob and I into the home, an unwise decision since the first thing he did when he jacked the door open was stub his toe on the doorstop and yelp in pain.

I put my hand over his mouth to prevent further noise. But it seemed like Barry was prone to it, because he then bumped straight into the kitchen counter and knocked the leg out of a table with a frantic swipe of his foot.

Clang, Bang, Whump and Slam; it seemed like watching dominos. Pans fell to the floor with a defining Clang, almost as if they were swimmers diving into an invisible pool.

The table smashed to the floor, unbalanced on its two remaining legs. It broke in three places. Barry was still flailing in fright like an idiot, smashing into the counter and knocking it over. Who makes this fragile crap anyway! The counter crashed to the floor with a loud WHUMP.

The last musical note in this catastrophic symphony was of all the pots, pans and silverware in the fallen side of the counter crashing to the floor.

Wonderfully played. Stupid, STUPID Barry. I knew this was a bad idea. They should have sent me in with Jib. Jib's not…you know…stupid.

A light upstairs flicked on. Perfect. I could hear a Clakker's voice from up there. That grainy, annoying, squawking voice that made my skin crawl.

"Brrukaw! What th' hell's goin' awn down thar!" The Clakker's big feet thumped down the stairway.

Each thump sounded like a heartbeat coming from my chest. I didn't need this! I didn't want to get caught! I'm not a felon, I'm a hostage! A puppet in Bailey's bigger game! Oh, Odd. I can't get caught red-handed! I need to leave before…

Flash.

A bright light came from what I assumed to be a camera. The click and whirr of mechanical gears confirmed this.

"Ha! I gotchya, ya filthy thief! Now ev'ryone's gonna know who's been a-plunderin' our town," The Clakker said deviously.

I moved back towards the door. The Clakker shook nervously and stepped back; assuming that I might try something funny, being an Outlaw and all. My eyes were as wide as saucers from the shock.

I was a felon, and now the Clakkerz had a face to go with their perp. I would soon be on all of the Wanted posters. "Look out fer this Outlaw: a wussy and a thief!" They would read.

Not only did I not want to be a thief, but I was now a wanted Outlaw. Bounty hunters would be after me left and right.

Should I attack the Clakker? No, I'm in enough trouble as it is. I did what I thought would be the best option.

I backed out of the house and ran.


	2. Chapter 2 A Stranger Comes to Town

**Chapter 2  
_A Stranger Comes to Town_  
(Part One)**

Stranger's boots clicked as he walked slowly into town. He wasn't in any hurry; Birdington wasn't going anywhere.

He was a nomad, he moved wherever there were bounties to be had. In the times between, he just went with the wind. Not much mattered to him besides his own agenda.

That wasn't to say that there wasn't a faint sense of urgency in his life. The bounties he collected were repaid in Moolah, and Moolah was what he needed for Doc to perform the surgery he so desperately needed on himself. That…alteration of his body that would make him "normal."

If anyone were to find out Stranger's secret, it wouldn't just be a huge blow to his reputation, it would most likely spell his eminent demise.

But the surgery was a long time coming, so he had time to stop and smell the cacti.

The first Clakker he met ran up to greet him. The size difference was very noticeable. The Clakker was barely as high as Stranger's waist.

"Howdy, partner!" The Clakker said energetically. "Welcome to Birdington! You just passin' through or do ya have some kinda business to take care of?"

Stranger's growling undertone made the Clakker uneasy. "I s'ppose you could say that. Ya got any bounties 'round these parts?"

"Oh, sure," said the Clakker. "We've got quite a few. You must be a Bounty Hunter, then. What's your moniker?"

Stranger looked up towards the sun, and then slowly back down at the Clakker. "I go by Stranger. Sort of a nickname. People don't usually pry into my personal life. Not a bad idea, actually."

The Clakker shifted nervously. He got the hint, no more prying. This guy obviously had some social skill issues.

"Well'p, the Bounty Store is right down th' way thar. You can check it out if you want some info on th' jackasses what been botherin' us."

Stranger swiped his fingers over the brim of his huge hat. "Thankee kindly."

The Clakker smiled a huge, beaky grin. "No problem, uh… Stranger." Then he added softly, "Weirdo."

Stranger had overheard the side comment, and turned back to face the Clakker. He slowly moved towards the bird, who was beginning to regret his last comment.

"What was that?" Stranger growled.

"What? Nothin'! I was just…uh…" The Clakker searched frantically for an excuse.

Stranger grabbed the bird by the front of his red overalls and lifted him to eye level with incredible ease. The Clakker swallowed a lump in his throat.

Stranger's voice was so low yet so menacing that it literally made the Clakker pee himself. "Yer just lucky I ain't into fightin' weaklings like yerself. You'd be on th' ground in a heartbeat."

Stranger dropped the Clakker, who landed on his ass with a thump.

"You ain't worth my time," he said. "Oh, and ya might want to get a clean pair-a pants."

The Clakker got up and ran as fast as he could, crying and whimpering.

Stranger chuckled to himself. First impressions were always fun.

With the greetings out of the way, Stranger walked to the west of town, towards a building with

an orange sign that read "Birdington Bounty Store."

**Chapter 2  
_A Stranger Comes to Town_**

**(Part 2)**

"Welcome to th' Bounty Store!" the Clakker behind the desk said with that old Southern Mudos hospitality. Stranger walked in casually, enjoying the sight and smell of fresh "Wanted" posters with the Outlaw's ugly mugs in the middle of the page.

"You lookin' fer a map or are ya here on o-fficial business?" The Clakker inquired.

"I'm here fer th' hunt," Stranger replied. "Let's see what ya got."

A Clakker brought up a small stack of photocopied Wanted posters, each just like the ones printed on the parchments on the wall of the entrance. The bird also brought out a checklist and a clipboard with each of the bounty's names on it.

The Clakker read from the list.

"Jones McHobbler, wanted fer jackin' food from the grocery st—"

"No," Stranger interrupted. "Too scrawny. Not my type of fight."

"All right," the Clakker said. "Next one is Boomba Jimmison, wanted fer knockin' down our ScareClakkerz in th' fields—"

"Ya call that a crime? Pick 'em up yerself an' stop bein' wussies about it. 'Sides, he's tiny. It'll feel like beatin' on a kid," Stranger replied.

"Ginny Granglestien, wanted for pickin' our oppel trees clean."

"They's trees. Ya can't own a tree!" Stranger almost lost it, but he caught himself and applied his poker face. "Just…what else ya got? These're losers!"

The Clakker sighed. "Well'p, I was gonna save this one for later, but if you want the big guns, I'll get 'em for ya."

"'Bout friggin' time," said Stranger, who had his hand over his face in frustration.

"Bailey 'Tiny' Markowitz," the Clakker said as he brought out a page featuring a particularly ugly Outlaw. "Now we've had this guy fer quite some time. Reports say he's wanted fer murder, but we ain't seen him more-'n once since th' report was filed. It was a few months ago, but some hikers done say they see him headin' up the ol' Beakly Bridge to th' mountains."

"Hm. Yeah, sounds like a good one. Guy looks like he's been eatin' his wheaties," Stranger said. "Might try t' go after him later. What's it pay?"

"I do believe its $8,000 Moolah alive and $1,000 dead," answered the Clakker.

"Lemme see what else ya got before I go," said Stranger.

"Well, we have a new one, just came in yesterday," the Clakker said as he pulled out a sheet with a really crude photo on it. "Guy who took th' picture says th' Outlaw jus' backed outta his home with no problems."

The photo may have been crude, but the image of the Outlaw was clear enough. The guy was tall, and looked kind of like Blisterz and his brother Boilz from a month ago. The Outlaw was surprisingly well dressed, with a hat, coat, and a cane in his right hand.

"Yep, nobody's got a name for 'em, but we sure as hell got us a face. Guy's been lootin' our town clean fer th' last few months. I'd be careful, though. Th' photographer says that th' summabitch was tall."

"They usually is," said Stranger as he put the bounty poster in his vest. "I'll take 'em. What's th' payout on 'em?"

"Nine grand alive, four grand dead," said the Clakker.

"That'll work, thanks." Stranger said as he walked towards the door. He slid his fingers across his hat as a "goodbye" gesture.

Stranger had fought a lot of Outlaws, but this one seemed…different. He was drawn to it not because of the payout, but because he felt like he should meet this guy. The bounty didn't look like the dastardly type, he looked like a complete wimp.

There had to be more to this one than met the eye.


	3. Chapter 3 Big Bad Bailey

Chapter 3

**Big, Bad Bailey**

The trip back up the mountain was a step above a pain in the ass. My sandal broke and I was walking unevenly up uneven land. I had thorns in my feet from when we had to hike through the woods to get to Beakly Bridge.

Chains was pissed at me. I was the gang's secret weapon, and I had my face on a wanted poster. Bad for the gang, even worse for me. I was the person that the bounty hunters would be hunting.

"Not much further until we reach the plateau! C'mon, you's mugs!" Chains yelled to the rest of us.

The bridge was fairly new and had once provided a way for Clakker tourists to visit the mountains. Now they've been commandeered by the Outlaws as a hideout. Until this day, nobody knew about the hideout. There were suspicions when Clakkerz never returned from their hikes, but not a soul ever wondered what was really going on. Now there would be searches for the Clakkerz that never returned to Birdington.

Of course, the gang knew that all they would find would be corpses.

The hideout was nestled in an old Clakker ranger station that was "seized" when the gang arrived. We passed what I still saw as a gruesome sight. The corpses of trespassers and people that disappointed Bailey (Clakker and Outlaw alike), skewered with pole lances which were planted where the victim stood. White, chalky bones glistened in the sun, picked clean by birds of prey. It was horrid what the gang did to people they despised.

I saw a patch of land near the entrance. That would be where I would go. I tried to imagine Bailey stabbing me from my head, straight to the ground. My bones still hanging there a month later, as white as the ones we passed.

I was doomed to die at the hands of the gang's boss.

Chains pushed me into the building. The ceiling was completely gone in most of the rooms, due to the Mortar Outlaws having fun with the place.

I stared at him. Bailey "Tiny" Markowitz, one of the biggest Outlaws you'd ever see. People say he's almost as tall as that guy Elboze Freely that was in the paper recently. He used to be a shrimp of an Outlaw, smaller than Chains even. That was where he got the name "Tiny." But then, in a twist of fate, or irony, or whatever you want to call it, Bailey had a growth spurt. This was the mother of all growth spurts. He shot up so tall that his head almost reached where the ceiling used to be. As far as I could tell, that was nearly fourteen feet. Bigger than all of us.

Bailey thought highly of himself. He even had a "throne" made out of old crates that he'd sit in when there was nothing for him to do. Which meant, having minions at his beck-and-call, that he didn't have to do much.

He saw us coming in, and greeted us with incredible calmness. And considering the circumstances, calmness made us all uneasy.

"We-he-hell! If it ain't mah favorite hostage, come back with a couple-a escourts. How went the trip?" His voice boomed.

We all knew that he knew how the trip went. The nervousness inside of me crept up my back.

"Oh, wait. I think I did hear a little about it," he said. "Why don't you come on over, Pugs. Let's chat."

I nodded nervously and slowly approached him.

"If you don't have the purdiest photo face, I don't know who does," he said. "Go on, ask me where I see'd ya!"

I knew that if I didn't say anything, it would make him mad. His calm, collected tone was betrayed by a very violent eye twitch. "Wh-where did you s-see me today, s-sir?"

"Jerry brought me this little trinket from y'all's visit to Birdington. This here's your picture on the front of a Wanted poster!"

His voice was so loud that it shook the walls. I was in deep shit.

"I can explain! The Clakker caught me by surprise! I-It was all Barry and Billy-Bob's fault! They made all of the noise," I pleaded.

"I don't want excuses! Because of this, them Odd-damn featherheads is gonna be comin' up here lookin' for ya! Every single Bounty Hunter'll want a piece of ya! Then they'll come after me! RAAGH!"

His fist clenched and quivered. He smashed a crate with one giant forearm. I fell to the floor and back-crawled away from him, hoping to Odd that I wasn't the next thing he'd use to quell his fury.

Instead, his face went from a clenched grimace to a curled up smile.

"You know what happened to Jackie? He was one of our best snipers. Been part of our group for a while before you got here. Guy could shoot the pupil off of a Thudslug from fifty yards away."

Funny thing happened to him, though. Somethin' got in his head that things 'round here weren't bein' run fairly. So he decides he wants to try and take me on. Long story short, guy met an unfortunate death by getting too close to a fan." he pointed to a rusty old fan on the wall, the blade red with dried blood, and chuckled knowingly.

"And Jeff didn't like how things was run around here neither, said somethin' 'bout me bein' too…violent? Ah, whatever. Anyway, poor old Jeff found himself getting' acquainted with his own insides, if you know what I'm saying. Me? Violent? Ain't that a hoot?"

The Execution Speech. Bailey does it just before they go on one of the pikes outside. I knew Jeff, and I heard the same speech being given to him before he disappeared. And now it would happen to me. I wondered what kind of carving knife he would use…

"But we's gonna do things a little different this time." he proclaimed. "Pugs,

get outta my gang."

"W…what?" I stammered, surprised to still be alive after his speech and not quite understanding what I was hearing.

"You. You're gone. Outta my hideout. I ain't gonna soil my hands on yer hide," he said, calmed down. "Go."

"But I…" I started, but then I reconsidered my questions and decided to take his advice.

"Hey, wait. Terms of the agreement ain't been discussed yet." He said as I was leaving.

As much as I hated the way he said that, it was better to agree to something and have my freedom than to be killed, which I was sure he'd do if I refused. I stopped and turned.

"Nowhere over that way," he motioned to the entire region of Birdington, and the forests around it. "No, you head that way, towards the desert. You even think of returning to the forbidden zones, I'll have snipers in the woods ready to shoot yer head off."

Whatever, Tiny, as long as I can go. "No problem," I said.

"Go." he pointed towards a barren place visible from the mountains.

I did as I was told. Finally.

…Freedom.

(V) 

But freedom was not so easily had, because after Pugsley was gone, Bailey had a discussion with a few of his best men.

"Okay, listen up and listen good," he said to about seven shooters, two flame-throwers and five cutters. "I want you to go out there, follow that butt-stain, an' make damn sure I never hear from his lousy, blunderin' ass again."

"But boss," a shooter said. "You just let him go."

"I don't care what I done said a minute ago. Do what I's sayin' now. I don't want him makin' trouble for us with that bounty slapped on his head. That bastard'll lead those Clakkerz right to us."

"Consider him char-broiled, boss." A Flamer saluted Bailey and motioned for the team to follow in Pugsey's direction.

(V) 

And there I was. Free as a bird. Off to make a new life for myself in some other region as a law-abiding Outlaw. I loved the timber of that.

I followed a gravel road down the mountain, which would take me to Canyon Pass. Not suprisingly, Canyon pass was so-named because it's just that: a canyon with a road that rests at the base. It was a way for Clakkerz to send and deliver supplies between the four surrounding towns, including Birdington, via wagon train caravans.

There was a map of the area that we would consult before preforming heists, and if I could remember correctly, this road leads to an artificial rise in the canyon that was placed practically parallel to the town of Sanderson Flats, created by the Clakkerz to provide a quicker route to the town. That was where I needed to go.

With my destination set, I trudged foreword, hoping to get a warm reception in the town of Sanderson Flats.


	4. Chapter 4 Weapons of Choice

Chapter 4

Weapons of Choice

Stranger walked towards the gate at the far end of town. Almost each town that Stranger had been to had a gate of some kind. The reason behind this was simple: the Clakkerz that resided in the town were all cowards.

The gatekeeper was up in a security tower, watching closed-circuit television. Stranger could hear the laugh track on the show as he climbed up the ladder to the top of the security tower.

The Clakker, absorbed in the show he was watching, didn't hear Stranger coming up behind him.

"Howdy," Stranger said. The Clakker literally fell to the floor, screaming in terror.

"Brukaw! I'm sorry, sir! I'll get back to work! Whoa, wait a gol-danged minute, you ain't my boss!" the Clakker thrust his wing in the direction of the door. "Get outta here, ya mangy, flea-bitten—HOIK!"

Stranger grabbed the Clakker by the neck. "Open the gate so's I can capture that Outlaw," he growled. "You got's three seconds."

Stranger dropped the bird. The Clakker whimpered and scrambled to the control panel, pushing a few buttons and pulling a lever.

Stranger saw that the Clakker had a lunch platter on his desk. Stranger put some of the meat in his pack. He would need it later.

The huge gate slowly slid open down below the tower. "Good choice, feather-head." Stranger climbed back down the tower.

A Clakker with a nametag called to the one in the tower. "Hey, Willy! Did ya find that Bounty Hunter yet? He needed that gate open."

"Well, um… he found me." The Clakker in the security tower said.

Stranger walked out of town. The trail was actually at the base of a tall canyon leading to a wide savanna. He picked up a rock. It was time to hunt.

This hunt, however, wasn't focused on the Outlaw (at least, not yet), but for Stranger's ammunition. His weapon of choice was a wrist-mounted, double-barreled, semi-automatic, retractable crossbow. He hated guns, the smell of gunpowder made his stomach turn.

But Stranger didn't use arrows or bullets (though the thought that those might be more useful choices had crossed his mind). In place of them, he used (of all things) small animals with different volatile abilities. He humorously referred to these as "Live Ammo."

Stranger had a mental checklist of each animal. Chippunks, Bolamites, and Fuzzles in case the bounty got out of hand. That was all he needed for now.

Stranger found a nest of Chippunks, each of the rodents chattering away at each other. Chippunks were one of the few animals that were blessed with the gift of gab. Unfortunately, they used this gift to yell profanities and insults at passer-bys.

"Yo, man. I'd watch out if I were you," a Chippunk said to another. "There's some douchebag with a rock and it looks like he's going to—YOWCH! Son of a b—ugh..."

Stranger hated people who spoiled the stealth approach. He knocked out the one who was warning the other, who passed out.

The Chippunk was stunned, but unharmed. Stranger scooped up the tiny, fat, legless rodent into his hand and dropped it into his ammo bag.

Bolamites wove huge, messy webs all over the place. Stranger didn't have to go far to find a lamppost covered with the sticky, cottony thread. And lo and behold, there were Bolamites skittering all around the webs.

Stranger picked up another rock, placed it on the crossbow's launcher and fired. The blue, four-legged arachnid squeaked and passed out.

Stranger used the Bolas because they wrap whatever frightens them into a tightly wound web. This defensive mechanism was exactly what Stranger needed to tie up unruly Outlaws.

The last of the critters was called a Fuzzle, a particularly dangerous animal to catch. These ornery critters were small, limbless creatures with a fuzzy coat and big, orange eyes. Cute, until you notice the bloodthirsty grin housing huge, flesh-ripping fangs. Fuzzles were notorious for being ravenous carnivores.

Stranger wasn't going to raid a Fuzzle nest. If the Fuzzles didn't do him in, the rotting stench of their nests (made from the spare meat of past kills) would. Stranger, who was at least fifteen to twenty feet from the nest, took a great handful of rocks and took out his binoculars.

With his crossbow leveled in the view of his binoculars, he placed a rock on the launcher and fired, hitting a Fuzzle. It grunted and lopped to one side, stunned. Using the same tactic, he took out five more. 

Now came the tricky part. He took the meat he stole from the Clakker's lunch and tossed it past the nest. The Fuzzles watched the meat and quickly followed it to where it landed.

Stranger got up, scooped up the six unconscious Fuzzles and dropped them in his satchel with the other ammo. He then bolted out of the vicinity as fast as he could.

With the actual ammo captured, it was time for a little target practice.

He raised his crossbow, leveled it towards a twig stuck in the canyon wall. He picked up two rocks, placed them on the launcher, and shot the left rock directly at the twig. The rock's impact jarred the twig loose and it fell. Stranger bolted towards the twig and caught it in midair. He tossed it to the right, making the twig spin away. He then aimed the rock (while still in the air!) and shot. The twig broke in half, its spinning ceased and it fell.

Stranger fell to the ground, holding out the arm with his crossbow and balancing on his other three limbs. The twigs hit the ground and bounced, then rested.

Stranger grinned. It was a shame there wasn't a crowd around to see that. If you're that good, it's okay to show off.

Stranger rose from his tripod landing and looked down the trail. There was a savanna just past where the canyon widened out. Stranger squinted and thought he could make out a fairly large figure in the distance.

He picked up his binoculars and took a closer look. The figure was an Outlaw, the kind that looked like Blisterz Booty and his brother Boilz. The figure was a dark blue color and wore a bowler hat. Stranger looked at the Wanted poster. The Outlaw in the photo matched the Outlaw trudging down into the savanna.

He looked very tired and worn out by the heat and elements. But the Outlaw was still very large and could deal a lot of damage if taken head-on at this point. As much as Stranger loved confrontations, the best thing to do would be to follow, and wait for the heat to tenderize the Outlaw a little bit more.


	5. Chapter 5 The Confrontation

Chapter Five

**The Confrontation**

I was probably put at least twenty miles behind me since I had fled the hideout. Leaving there left a strange taste in my mouth.

Why would Bailey, a short-fused and uncomfortably violent Outlaw bestow something so harmless as a banishment? I practically waltzed out of the hideout, and the brute didn't even bat an eye.

Well, count your blessings, as they say. What's past is past; so don't dwell on it, Pugsley old boy.

The heat was beginning to get to me. My vision was blurry and I was having trouble keeping the sweat from my eyes. My coat was ripped in various places, beaten senseless by the elements. My head was getting the worst of it. Note to self: Black bowler hats are not good for trips through the desert, and are only good for soaking in excess sweat.

I was trudging through a grassy savanna at the base of a canyon. There was a row of trees on either side of the canyon, and a dirt road slicing through it. I made a long turn towards the forest to my left. The shade could provide some comfort, and I could stop and get the thorn out of my foot that had been nagging me since I received that hit-and-run from that tumbleweed a while back.

For a moment, I could have sworn that I saw a figure approaching from the distance. But I looked again, and it was gone. I chalked it up to heat stroke playing with my mind and headed for the woods.

(V) 

Stranger cautiously followed the figure in the blue coat. He kept a considerable amount of distance between himself and the Outlaw, and for good reason. If he were to be seen, he would surely have to face this guy head-on. No, better to let the hot desert sun do the damage for him, rather than jump right in.

The bounty hunter was doing well, until the Outlaw turned his head. Stranger was sure that the Outlaw was looking straight at him, so he quickly bolted behind a rock.

The Outlaw turned and veered to the left, towards a long stretch of forest on the left wall of the canyon. Stranger took off on all fours, turning towards the forest as well, and ever so often ducking behind rocks or jumping into trees to avoid detection.

Stranger made it into the thick brush, still about three hundred yards away from the Outlaw. He climbed up a tree with incredible ease, almost as if he were simply treading ground. There was a branch at the top of the tree, uncomfortable, yet good enough that he could spy on the Outlaw without being seen.

Stranger felt at home here in amongst the forests for some reason, more so than he had ever felt in any town he'd been to, no matter how nice it was.

The Outlaw was sitting on a log, picking at his feet. Stranger would make his move soon, but first he wanted to have some fun with him.

Stranger arched his back and leapt to another tree, grabbing a large branch with his claws. He spared no time and sprang foreword yet again, soaring through the air and landing at the back of the branch. He continued on in that fashion until he was sitting in a tree right behind the Outlaw.

The Outlaw was at least nine feet tall, and wore a tattered blue coat with a white coat (with yellowish sweat stains), and a soggy, stinky bowler hat. All were such great choices for traveling in balmy, triple-digit weather.

It was time to implicate a little paranoia on this guy. Stranger picked up a twig nested in the middle of the tree and tossed it to the left of the Outlaw, who followed it with his eyes. He got up and studied the twig with a strange sense of intelligence in his eyes, not usually a very common trait in Outlaws.

Stranger then slunk down out of the tree, crouched in the tall grass and tossed a pebble just behind the Outlaw, who heard it clack when it hit the ground.

"What in the world is going on?" the Outlaw said to himself as he turned to look. Stranger raced back into the tree, making just enough noise to ruffle the grass a bit.

The Outlaw looked over to the grass, which was still shaking.

"Okay, I know someone's here," he said, his voice having a distinctly exhausted ring to it. "Show yourself."

Stranger didn't usually take requests, but the time was right to confront the Outlaw.

He dropped from the branch in front of the Outlaw, landing flat on his feet.

"Why are you following me?" the Outlaw enquired.

"I'm here to take ya in," Stranger replied. "You've got a purdy price on yer head that I aim's to collect."

(V) 

It wasn't long before I found a place to sit. The log was sturdy enough, probably solid all the way through. I pulled my leg up onto my lap so I could get at that thorn. Note to myself: Wash my feet when I reach the next town.

I was probably half of the way to the end of the canyon, and from there I would need to head west, taking the road all the way to the town of Sanderson Flats. Hopefully, I could get a nice, warm reception and a nice, cold glass of water.

Who am I kidding? The Clakkerz would sooner tar and feather me than let an Outlaw live amongst them. Besides, I couldn't just walk right into a town. I'm a wanted felon.

Or could I? I mean, I've got at least five feet and two hundred pounds on each of those clucking bastards! Who's to stop me from…

No, no. I had promised myself that I would never resort to intimidation to get what I want, and that's a promise I want to keep.

I would have to do some heavy ass kissing, and just to get a drink of water. Oy vei.

I had finally gotten the thorn dislodged from my foot when I saw a twig sail past my head. What the hell? Twigs don't just move. I got up to investigate; maybe it was an insect of some kind.

I bent over to look at the stick up close, as my eyes blurred out anything that wasn't at least two feet from them. I felt a rush of pain in my skull from bending over so fast.

It was definitely a twig. Nothing to worry about, just a twig. A twig that…moved by itself? Okay, yeah. I'll admit that seemed a bit creepy.

As I was standing there, hunched over, I noticed something behind me move. It was a pebble that had been tossed to my right. Okay, I was officially nervous. Knock it off, nature.

"What in the world is going on?" I asked myself, baffled as to why things were moving when they shouldn't. It was a regular "square peg in round hole" scenario.

It made a pit in the sand when it landed. It couldn't have rolled; it was definitely thrown by someone. But by whom? There was nobody else around!

And if things weren't freaking me out enough already, I heard the grass behind me ruffle. There was practically no breeze coming from anywhere, so what…

My suspicions were confirmed when I saw something in the shape of a boot quickly move up the tree. I knew it; someone _is_ f_u_cking with my head.

I tried to look as brave as I could. "Okay, I know someone's here," I said. "Show yourself."

Suddenly, the leaves in the tree above me rattled as a figure fell from the branches. He couldn't have been more than a foot or so smaller than me. His body was covered in fur and he wore a triangular-shaped vest composed of different parts sewn together and decorated with convoluted patterns. He wore a hat with a huge brim, which shaded his face.

"Why are you following me?" I demanded.

Though his grammatical skills were about as sharp as an elum on pain killers, his voice was unwelcomingly deep and sent shivers down my spine.

"I'm here to take ya in," he said with a smirk. "You've got a purdy price on yer head, and I aim's to collect."

I was staring a bounty hunter straight in the face. Great, just what I _don't _need. A guy who wants to earn a paycheck by dumping me into a jail cell.


	6. Chapter 6 Outlaw Battle Blitz

Chapter six

**Outlaw Battle Blitz**

Stranger grinned widely. He pulled the parchment from his vest and observed the photo. He then nodded slightly and turned it towards Pugsley.

"…This you?" Stranger growled. His face was turned away, and his expression was as if he already knew the answer.

"I'm innocent, I swear," Pugsley pleaded.

"Looks like you…" Stranger said, taking the parchment back and glancing at it with the same sure expression.

"You have to believe me! I-I was forced to commit those crimes!" Pugsley stammered.

Stranger sighed loudly, put the parchment away, and stretched his shoulders.

"Yep, can't say I never heard that one before. You Outlaws always got some pre-planned alibi, don't ya? 'Oh, th' gun just happened t' be there when it fired.' 'Honest to Odd, th' clerk at th' bank gave the money away!' 'That bomb was set t' blow up, and I just happened t' be runnin' away from th' blast zone at the time!' It's like one big fuckin' schedulin' error, ain't it Tubby?"

Pugsley was getting desperate. "I was being held hostage by an Outlaw gang boss named Bailey Markowitz. I never intended to hurt anyone, and if I could have helped it, I wouldn't have robbed anyone either!"

"You jis' don't stop with th' 'ain't my fault' crap, do ya?" Stranger rolled his eyes. "Look, personally, I couldn't give less of a shit why ya robbed the town blind. My job's t'nab any of yew chunky bastards who're lucky enough t'get their faces stamped on a wanted poster, not listen t' yer sappy-assed, whiny sob stories. Yer face is on th' poster, so yer ass is mine."

"You don't even care?" Pugsley's eyes widened in surprise.

"'Fraid I stopped doin' that a long time ago."

Pugsley's surprised look slowly hardened into a face of determination. "Well, you're not taking me. I was released not five hours ago from that constricting hellhole, and I'm not giving up my freedom! You won't capture me so easily."

"So, yer goin' with option B? Good, I needed a workout." Stranger grinned.

(V) 

A troop of fourteen Outlaw minions made their way down to the right side of the canyon, and into the forest. They consisted of seven shooters, five cutters, and two flame-throwers.

"We there yet?" one of the shooters yelled from the back.

"You'll know when we is!" a cutter yelled to him.

"Shaddup, you's mugs," one of the two flamers hissed though the grate in his mask. "Ya wanna screw up our stealth approach? Now, if I was Pugsley, where would I go?"

"The nearest fast food joint," one of the cutters whispered to a shooter, chuckling and nudging him with his elbow.

"I'm bein' serious, yew dingbat!" The flamer said.

"What're we doin' this for again? I keep forgettin'!" A shooter asked.

The lead flamer groaned and turned back to face the group. "Fer th' hundredth time, we's makin' sure that ol' Free Willy don't come back t' bite our gang in th' fuckin' ass. We get him before he gets us. Got it?"

The gang nodded at each other, saying "Yeah, that makes sense," or something of the like.

"Is we there yet?" The same shooter asked.

"No, shaddap!" one of the cutters replied.

The troops made their way into the thick forest, past the outer layer of dead trees and into the thicker layer of lush green trees that grew closer to the canyon wall. They marched on, following the canyon to make sure they were headed in the right direction. Soon, they saw two figures; one was very large, the other was shorter and much thinner, with huge forearms.

(V) 

"So, who's gonna throw th' first punch, Tubby? Me, or you?" Stranger stretched his arm up above him.

Then he stopped. He turned to look behind him, and peered deep into the thick brush.

Nothing. He could've sworn he heard something move.

Then, an arm poked out from behind a giant plant leaf. Bingo.

"I'm gonna have t' deal with you in a minute, Tubby," Stranger growled. "We've got company."

He pilled a sharp looking rock from the dirt and set it on the launcher of his crossbow. He aimed it at the hand and fired.

(V) 

"Stay put," one of the flamers growled.

"Would you look at the size of that guy's forearms! Freakin' huge!" hissed one cutter to another.

"Yeah, you likes a guy who can hold you, don't ya?" the other cutter laughed.

"Sh-shut up! That ain't what I meant, an' yew know it!"

"Would you two morons kindly shut up!" The flamer growled. "You wanna give away our position?"

"Hey!" the shooter yelled waving his arm out. "Are…we…there…yet!"

At that last word, a rock whizzed towards him, sliced through his hand and pinned it to a tree trunk.

"AGH! Son of a bitch!" The shooter screamed.

The Outlaws began to panic. "You see what I mean! Now we're screwed!" The flamer yelled.

(V) 

"Attack! Kill Pugsley, don't let either of 'em escape alive!" One of the flamers shouted.

Stranger growled and charged towards the crowd, then over them in a single jump. In one fluid movement, he snapped five of the Outlaw necks in mid-air.

He landed on all fours, skidded around to face the group, and mentally checked his ammo. Fuzzles, Chippunks, and Bolamites, there was nothing he could use that would take them all out fast enough. It seemed brute force was the only option.

He bounded back up to his feet, raising his left fist. A cutter watched in dismay as the one of his comrades next to him was clocked square in the jaw and was sent flying back into a tree. Stranger then turned and slammed his other fist in the still awestricken Outlaw's gut.

Seven Outlaws down, seven more to go. Stranger knocked one more off the playing field, right into the Cliffside. But as he did, a shooter cocked his gun and fired a bullet right into Stranger's left arm.

He howled in pain. The bullet had shot right along two muscles, leaving a tear over them.

Pugsley watched in horror as his kin took the chance to swamp the wounded bounty hunter. At that moment, he realized that it didn't matter that this person wanted to cash in on his freedom. He needed help.

Pugsley roared with rage and charged.

He literally killed two Outlaws just by mowing them over. He grabbed a cutter and tossed him against a tree, goring him on a branch.

There were just the two flamers left. Pugsley mad quick work of him by smashing him against the ground.

The last one turned and grinned at Pugsley. He began to laugh, his chuckles reverberating off of his iron mask.

"What are you laughing at, Chuckles?" Pugsley squinted inquisitively. "I just killed four of your best men."

"Yew don't think we done planned for this?" The flamer took a two-way radio from his belt, and spoke into it. "Let 'er rip!"

Then came the explosion. A portion of the canyon behind them crumbled and fell, causing a rockslide that blocked the path.

Pugsley gaped in shock, then looked back at the flamer.

"Now there ain't no way you gettin' back to the hideout," he said.

"I never wanted to go back!" Pugsley hollered.

The Flamer stared at Pugsley. "Oh, you didn't?"

"No! Why the hell would I want to go back to a place where people would shoot me on sight!"

"Um… that's a good point," the flamer said. "Well, my job's done, I'll just be on my merry--GACK!"

Before the flamer could even move, Stranger grabbed him by the neck with his good arm and crushed his spine.

The Flamer fell to the ground. Stranger got up, uneasily.

"How's your arm?" Pugsley asked.

Stranger looked at him, bewildered. In all of his years, never has an Outlaw inquired about his well-being. "Er, I recon I'll be fine. I heal up purdy good, should be fine in about two days. Damn decent of ya t' stick up fer me like that."

"Well, it's no problem," Pugsley said proudly. "I would do the same for any—WHOA!"

Stranger grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. "Don't do it again. I fight my own battles, so keep yer skinny head out, y'hear?"

Stranger released Pugsley from his grasp. "Well, that's gratitude for you," Pugsley said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stranger walked out of the woods and observed the rockslide.

"So, how will you get back to Birdington?" Pugsley inquired.

"Whaddaya mean 'me'? You ain't gonna leave my sight. As long as yer face is on this here paper, your nine-grand ass is mine. You even think of leavin', an' I'll feed you to th' Odd-damned Fuzzles."

Pugsley sighed. This guy has a one-track mind.

"Okay. There's another trail that goes back into town. I was gonna use that one, but Bailey uses some of the caves along the trail as a place to store emergency loot. I didn't take it because I'm pretty sure it's still guarded by a few of his minions. We can take that, take care of the Outlaws that are guarding the loot, and you can take me back to Birdington. I might as well face it: there's no way a guy like me could ever have a decent life of freedom around here unless he's shooting up a town."

"Yer just giving yerself up?" Stranger scratched his head.

"Might as well. You said it yourself, if I leave I'm sleg food."

Stranger looked at him, looking for the slightest hint that the Outlaw was lying. Pugsley didn't budge. Either he had a really good poker face or he was telling the truth."

"How far is this trail?" Stranger asked.

"About nine miles down the road," Pugsley motioned down the path. "We can make it to the base of the trail by nightfall."

"I've got my eye on you, Tubby." Stranger growled.

"I'll be on my best behavior, sir." Pugsley replied snidely.

And with that, the two walked out of the woods and down the main road. It wasn't going to be a comfortable journey, that part was sure, and only one of them had something to look forward to when they got back to town.


End file.
